Silhouettes
by ThyPenOrThySword
Summary: Years after the magic has left their lives, two women become mere shadows of who they once were. Essentially two related oneshots with no plot. No active romance, but suggestion of former Felicity/Pip and Gemma/Kartik. Rating for suggestive professions.
1. Paris

A/N: I have been messing with this for quite a while, but I finally decided to get it over with. Nothing belongs to me.

They say France is a romantic country. It is full of bustling, cheery cities and charming country sides covered in rolling green meadows and quaint little villas.

Well, it is. It may not be quite as wonderful as people imagine, but it is certainly a beautiful country. Everyone seems to take a certain pride in their reputation, and it adds to the appeal of the land. The cities are full of business men and fashionable ladies and cafes and artists and so many other things that the city seems to burst it is so full.

There are the back alleys, too, though. There are the city slums where everyday people die of starvation, thirst, or some disease. There are the bordellos, the whore houses where men and women with too little or too much spend too little or too much of their pitiful fortunes to sell their souls to the Devil.

Nowadays, most people, such as myself, seem to live between the lines of these two worlds. We are the business men who go home to a dying wife, we are the fashionable ladies who return home to be abused by their husbands; we are the cafes full of artists who stay there because we have nowhere else to go. We are the widows and widowers who seek out such an existence in order to try and forget, either in the city rush or the drunken desperation, those we have lost to the cruel world outside of our own minds.

I use the word we despite the fact that I am not truly part of such a collective. This is France, and I am an English lady, born and bred. My family was English, my money was English, even my speech was English; they say that you can never change who you are. I view myself as a living example of that.

I am a French woman now, for all appearances are worth. I speak French the way they do in Paris, and tourists who walk by me on the street would never guess it is not my native tongue. I dress as the French do, I act as the French should, and I feel a certain patriotism to my new country and the people in it.

I still feel my English heritage though, in my heart of hearts; that is why I feel you can never change who you are. I still catch myself doing things that a true French woman would not do; I laugh like an English girl. I feel all of my sorrows and insecurities, but it is the guilt that pierces my breast with all the agony of a twisting knife.

I still feel guilt over what happened, especially to her. She was so young, so beautiful, so beloved; she could have gone so far in life. But, I loved her, I still do, and I stole her away from everything she could have been. It is my fault that she is not here any longer.

I am just thirty years old and I feel as melancholy as an old grandmother.

I sit here in my patron's studio as he mixes his paints; reds the exact hues of blood and red wine, blues like the English Channel, purples like my lover's eyes.

Today I am to be Hera, Greek Queen of the Heavens. Goddess of marriage and wife of Zeus himself, she is an image of power reclining on a luxurious cushion. Peacock feathers gather in golden vases behind her and dishes of grains and animal fat sit in the distance as ceremonial offerings. Despite the nymphs carved into the wood of her recliner and the marble pillars, she is alone.

Raising his paintbrush to the canvas, my commander tells me that either I must smile or forever be known as the unhappy goddess. He is always telling me such things. He has been for years now, ever since he found me posing naked in a café for a gathering of artists.

I have been working with him since that day. Day after day we sit in his studio, growing quickly madder from the smell of the paints. Mostly we sit in silence, although he occasionally hires a penniless street-wanderer to read us poems from a beat-up volume. I love those days; they remind me of my school days. He never likes to speak when we are working, and he hates when I attempt to start a conversation. He says that I am to be the painting itself, and painting say all that they need to in appearance alone.

I think he has simply gone around the bend. It is impossible to tell everything you need to know about a person simply by watching them.

Everyone has a story. Everyone has a reason to do what it is that they do. Every single person walking down a street has a reason for walking on that particular street at that precise time. He has a reason to pick up that paint brush every morning and I have a reason to continue posing for him.

In Paris, I have come to see this.

For a painting a few years ago, I was posed staring out of a window down at the street below. Hours upon hours, at all times of day, I had nothing to do but watch the people below me going about their business. They fluttered and scurried and strode past my window like mortals in a divine scrying glass. It made me understand the sheer loneliness and desperation so often depicted in the face of the Lady of Shalott, only I had no Lancelot waiting for me in Camelot; all that awaited me was more of the same until death.

When you watch people, ordinary people that pass you on the street, you see only certain aspects of them. You can watch a man's behavior and critique his appearance, but the most you can gather about him is the contents of his present and the probable contents of his future. You can see from the ironed suit and un-shined shoes that he is married, but his wife is not pleased with him. The lady with bare ankles slinking out of the door behind him with a smug, yet somehow guilty, look shows you that the wife's displeasure is justified. In all likelihood, he will spend his nights in the future going home to a cold meal and an even colder bed. The fancy watch on his wrist points out why the wife will not leave.

However, there is no way of knowing his past. There is no way of knowing why he married his wife only to cheat on her, or why he continues to work at the law firm despite the bags under his eyes and the pistol in his left pocket. You can only see so much as an outsider looking in.

Sometimes I wonder how people see me, when they witness me from the perspective of an outsider looking in. Do they see a Paris lady like so many others, beautiful and charming? Do they see an English girl struggling to find her way in a city so different from, and yet so similar to, her native home? Do they see a woman just past her prime fighting every day with a broken heart and the feeling of the heavens on her shoulders?

In my years with my master, I have been many things and I have had many faces. I have been a young Artemis staring up at the heavens in the light of the motherly moon. I have been Andromache praying for the survival of her Hector. I have been Aphrodite playing with the hearts of mortals and watching my own remain unattached. I have been many things, but I have always been alone.

I think that my painter sees it in me, this loneliness, though he knows nothing of my past. No one here knows my story, and I like it that way. I like the solitude it offers. Maybe that is all he sees.

Do I seem lonely to you? You cannot see my face, only my words, so you can not be fooled by a coy smile or a subtle wink. Do you think I am lonely?

Well, I will tell you something, I am not alone. Never alone. I spend most of my hours with my painter, and when I leave him I am always surrounded. It is hard to be alone in Paris; it is even harder when your very existence is dependent on the whims of others. Even at night I always have at least two other bodies keeping me warm.

It does not matter to me how many people surround me - men and women, artists and politicians' wives. None of them matter to me; the only one I long for is gone. No money, dresses, or lovers can substitute her place in my soul.

I suppose I have friends. It depends what you call a friend. Is it someone who feeds you, clothes you, and lends you money I times of hardship? Is it someone who spends all their time with you and knows you more intimately than any other? Is it someone who knows all you secrets and still does not betray you? The people around me fill these roles and many others, but I feel no love for them, no affection. Jamais honteux n'eut belle amie.

If they were to disappear one day I would merely replace them. The loss of my master might give me pause, but I would soon find a new patron to pose for.

Life is fleeting. I have learned that lesson well. For now, I will stay as I am. I will remain the lonely lady in the paints, as what is left of my soul slowly blows away like the heat in October. I will remain.

A/N:

Felicity – n. A cause of happiness; good fortune.

It seldom happens that any Felicity comes so pure as not to be tempered and allayed by some mixture of sorrow.  
Miguel de Cervantes

Excuse any errors in my single French phrase. I speak none and found it online. Allegedly it means 'The shameful never have dear friends.' In addition, this may be the first chapter of a story, I have yet to decide. I will have no plot, really, so it shall be marked as complete regardless.


	2. Nice

A/N: Still just playing around. I decided to write this and post it as part of the same story. It may continue, it may not. Input would be lovely.

School never worked out for me.

First there was my early education in India. My father never trusted the natives with my upbringing, and I was taught by my mother and a combination of English tutors. My classes were English, Arithmetic, History of the Empire, and World Society. I was also instructed in basic ladylike hobbies such as music and art. The goal was to make me a well rounded young lady ripe for society; instead the pockets of my instructors were made well rounded by bribes to continue teaching me. I did not like to follow their orders.

When I was thirteen, my mother decided that I must always be accompanied by a governess of sorts, a chaperone to monitor my activities as well as instruct me in the ways of being a proper lady. After six months of fighting tooth and nail against every English damsel who tried to tell me the proper way to eat my dinner, I finally earned what I considered the privilege of an Indian governess whom I in no way viewed as a teacher.

Spence Academy certainly changed my life, but it never gave me a love for the academic lifestyle. I was far too busy running off into the other realm to study the ways of the world and how best to improve myself. My classes, some of which I may even have enjoyed, were dismissed as nothing but a delay in my plans.

When the tumultuous events of my late teen years were concluded, - see? I can sound as though I enjoyed school! – I went to an American university. I felt a new land and a new agenda would give me a new sort of life to experience. While the thrill was present, it was soon lost; within a year I had found a new thrill in courting married men.

You heard me right. Married men. It began with my performing arts professor, as cliché as that is. He was, perhaps, in his early thirties. I was, perhaps, a bit past half his age. But, he was handsome, and charming, and I was looking for something to make me forget my past. He worshipped me, and I bathed in the feeling of power I had not felt since the loss of my magic.

Soon enough, enraptured as I was by the newfound attention, I began looking for other ways to get that same thrill. It started fairly small, coy smiles that mimicked those for which I had often mocked Felicity and flattering clothes. Men paid attention to me.

Before I fully understood what I had gotten myself into, I was a nineteen year old single woman who had dropped out of university and who had been abandoned in Nice by a fifty year old man in a hurry to placate his wife.

What's a girl to do?

I knew little of the ways of the world; Kartik had always taken pleasure in reminding me that. I was raised privileged, and even in my adult life I had remained well taken care of. So, I soon became desperate. I had no food, no where to stay, and no belongings except the clothes on my back and the jewelry in my bag.

A woman found me living on the street after a month. I had begged for me food and sought shelter in alleyways, refusing to sell my belongings out of a misguided sense of pride. She offered me a job.

I have been here ever since. I live with my mistress and the other individuals she keeps. We work together for our daily bread and butter, serving the whims of people with more money and influence than we can ever aspire to possess.

She started me out as a waitress. She told me I would need to adjust before she would permit me to do anything more trying. Night after night I quietly served decadent meals and beverages to patrons. Despite my lack of finesse with the French language, I soon began to use the skills I had acquired in America to earn extra tips. I got more tips from husbands than wives.

I woke one morning, a few months into my new life, to the sight of a brand new dress on the beaten up chest at the foot of my bed. It was made of a thin and tropical feeling green fabric, and resembled some of the outfits and I had seen women wear during particularly hot Indian summers. I say resembled and particularly hot because there was not much of this green fabric. It would mostly cover my breasts and my legs, but my shoulders and ankles were left bare. Next to it was a small box with a small collection of gold jewelry wrapped in a variety of scarves and veils. The note atop it all said, in my mistress' sloping, French handwriting, that I was to join her in her office so that she could instruct me in my new position.

I had been promoted from waitress to dancer. I was to help my older sisters and brothers entertain the patrons when they showed up the following night. I had not formed any friendships with my coworkers, but in that morning and afternoon I learned so many secrets that I felt intimately involved with them all.

My new name was to be Parvati, a cruel mimicry, I felt, of a venerated deity. I was to work in tandem with another man and woman, known to the public as Shiva and Kali, who were both born and raised in India. I pitied them the shame of their circumstances.

They quickly worked me into their routines, patiently teaching me the steps and moves that I should utilize to impress our audience. They told me about how the routines often change and are susceptible to improvisation.

We performed together every night for nearly a year. I became good at what I did with their patient assistance, and soon became well known for my persona. I never had the chance to truly thank them before they ran off together into the night.

Over the past ten years, I have learned of the power that I possess in my position. I have the power to entice men with promises of bliss and to arouse in women a variety of passionate emotions.

They say that power corrupts.

I am living proof that it is addictive.

I have seen people, men and women alike, be drawn into this world of sin for one reason or some other. I have seen people leave this den of gluttony and lust both new people and entirely unchanged.

I have seen my face change. I have been goddesses and demons and witches. I have been Calypso enchanting Odysseus, Guinevere manipulating the love of Sir Lancelot, Cleopatra capturing the attention of Marc Antony.

Do you see the theme, here?

All of these are women of power. Empty power.

You do not believe me? Well then, I will show you.

The goddess Calypso has an affair with famed Odysseus for seven years, over a third of the time he spends separated from his wife Penelope. After those seven years of apparent bliss, he leaves her to return to Penelope.

Guinevere is the queen of King Arthur, a man known well and favorably in legend. She abuses this power to commit adultery with one of his knights, Sir Lancelot. While both men are enraptured with her, Guinevere must die for her crimes.

Cleopatra uses her cunning and wit, as well as her sensual beauty, to gain a position of enormous power in the ancient world. She bewitches men as renowned as Gaius Julius Caesar but falls victim to her own emotions and commits suicide at the end of her affair with Marc Antony.

See what I mean? All of these women, these and so many more, have the illusion of power. They seem to be the rulers of their worlds; they seem to be in charge of their destinies. When it comes down to it, though, none of them have any real power over the world.

I influence the thoughts and actions of dozens of individuals every day. I captivate them, I capture their thoughts, and I, for a moment, become the center of their worlds. I have them wrapped around my thumb.

But when the lights go out, the shadows disappear. The smoke and mirrors cannot be seen in the brutally honest darkness. I become just a woman. I become just as powerless as anyone else.

Sometimes I want to leave this life. I want to run away and never look back.

Sometimes I just want to disappear entirely. What is keeping me here?

I have nothing but illusions and suggestions.

I miss them. The people of my past, that is. It seems strange, that the most real and honest things in my life to date would be so otherworldly. All my best relationships were rooted in the power and mystery of that magical realm on the other side. All the love that remains to me was left behind when I exited that world.

I often feel the urge to write them letters. The ones who are alive, that is. I make excuse after excuse, though, and soon I put it off entirely. I feel the urge less often now than I used to.

Maybe I will write them someday. Maybe I will reconnect with the people of my past and together we will find the magic in life that seems to be missing now. Maybe I will spend my days sipping weak tea with them and discussing the lives of those around us.

Maybe pigs will sprout wings and fly.

Then again, who am I to judge? I am but an illusion put on a stage for all the world to see.


	3. A Chance

A/N: Well, it looks like this may become an actual story. I am still uncertain. Felicity and Gemma are not yet certain what they want, and will not permit me to rush them. Heaven forbid. We all agree that this is the next step, however. Input from my lovely readers would be wonderful.

[Paris]

My master has declared that I am no longer to be the lonely lady in the paints.

Somehow, I doubt that he has the power to truly declare that about me.

Nonetheless, I will do as he says. I have always wanted to travel, despite never truly having traveled myself. I have seen England and France, but never truly traveled within either.

My master has been inspired. A friend of his introduced him to a new artist, a man who paints only in black and white.

My master wants a partner for me. He wishes to paint friends and lovers, and says he wants a beauty to match the one in his bed.

We leave tonight to complete a survey of France. Because clearly there are not enough whores in Paris.

[Nice]

Tonight, I am a powerful princess ruling a queenless kingdom. I lament my circumstances, but soon a dark-skinned soldier comes to comfort me and teach me the ways of the world.

The reality of the scene causes me to cry on stage, even as I dance. Thankfully, as my mistress glares from behind a smoky screen, my partner turns it into part of the dance. The silly people in the audience are probably aroused by the vulnerability. Fools.

It is a good turnout, tonight. Rumors have been circulating the city of a master painter scouring the city for a new whore, and all the madams are flaunting their assets. I have more jewels on tonight than I have worn since royalty was in town.

I am getting old. Yes, I am only touching on my third decade, but, for a life such as mine years are delicate. My mistress can no longer cast me into the role of the young and nubile maid serving a handsome, strong king. Not that she ever did, really.

Still, my youth is reaching the end of its shelf-life.

I can tell that my mistress hopes that soon a man will come to her and declare himself my patron, allowing me become something more real. We all have dreams of becoming actresses and the like, but I would settle for being a private whore.

My power is dwindling.

I watch the audience carefully; I am not certain what I think I will see, but I have a feeling that something will happen soon, and I do not want to miss it. It is a tingle down my spine, and the feeling of knowing eyes watching my back.

After our performance, I quickly disappear behind the screens.

We are not permitted to shed our skins after the show, as some lonely rich man may want a second look or a private dance. I sit on a simple wooden stool as innocent young whores gather around me as ladies-in-waiting. Starved for any affection I may give them, they gently fix my hair and pull my clothing to rights. Tonight, I smile gently at them. As the oldest woman here, and one of the oldest in town, I am a mother to them as much as Madam is. They look to me for guidance and advice.

Just last week one confided in me that she believes herself in love with the farm boy who delivers our produce.

I refrained from confiding in her that he prefers to watch the men.

Why crush such delicate hopes before their time?

The girls hush around me and I turn to watch the entrance. My mistress stand there, her eyes locked on my. Quietly, slowly, she beckons me toward her.

I fear I cannot breathe.

A/N: When I speak of Gemma as being old, I hope you understand that by the standards of her profession, she is. She is not a famous dancer or courtesan who may be able to care better for herself and heal the natural damage, and her lifestyle has taken a toll on her body. Besides, both she and Felicity feel old far beyond their years due to their pasts.


End file.
